


The Edge of a Moment

by szhismine



Series: Revekah Trevelyan [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szhismine/pseuds/szhismine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a week before Cullen and Becky Trevelyan's wedding, they travel to Val Royeaux to begin the final preparations for their big day. But someone has it in for the groom-to-be, and they will do anything to destroy the famed Commander of the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Edge of a Moment

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the latest in my series about my Inquisitor, Becky. I won't say you need to read my previous fics for this one to make sense, but it'll help give context to a few things, like her and Cullen's relationship/wedding, her personality, some world state stuff. All my fics are posted here on AO3.
> 
> Alistair has a prominent cameo in this (Alistair/Cullen bromance forever). I've never written him before, and I try to strike a balance between his “king” facade and his personality in Origins. Let me know how I did :) My warden, Riza Cousland, is queen. I also reference The Silent Grove/Those Who Speak/Until We Sleep very briefly. 
> 
> This fic is very heavily inspired by an idea posted by tumblr user fxrmertxplar: “Cullen being invited by some old/retired templar friends to have a drink. He is rather excited for it and goes off almost immediately to meet them. Someone (doesn't have to be the Inquisitor, could be anyone) finds evidence to support this is an act to kill Cullen for betraying the order. When the someone arrives, they find Cullen passed out in a pool of his own blood, with a templar knife in his back.” So, expect major angst, mildly graphic violence, and a few headcanons about Cullen's past. Some hints of Dorian/Iron Bull. Italics are thoughts, quotations marks speech.

***

Val Royeaux, a normally orderly city, was on the verge of total chaos. The streets were teeming with artisans, merchants, servants, and nobles of every house. Jesters and musicians were performing wherever they could find the space. The people were celebrating, awaiting the imminent arrival of the Herald of Andraste and her groom, the illustrious Commander of the Inquisition. With a week left until the wedding of the century, the people of Orlais were ready to party.

Cullen sat petrified in his carriage seat. The rest of the Inquisition had arrived a few days ahead of them, and were already settled in at the royal estates. The Inquisition and their families were staying at King Alistair's palace in the city, which also served as Ferelden's embassy in Orlais. The couple was meant to have a grand entrance, to give the people a chance to see them, but he was shocked at just how many turned up. It looked like half the country was crammed into the capital city.

As he stared at the endless sea of people, he fought to keep his nausea at bay. He knew this was going to happen, but to now be in the thick of it, to see hundreds of people clamouring for just a glimpse of him and the Inquisitor...

A calloused hand lay on top of his own, and he squeezed it now as he forced himself to exhale. Beside him, Revekah stirred, and he wondered again how she'd been able to sleep for most of the journey. Then again, it was a rather luxurious carriage, a wedding present from King Alistair himself. Cullen smiled fondly as Becky yawned and rubbed her face into his shoulder. He wasn't wearing his usual cloak, and she frowned at the absence of his fur pauldrons. She pulled back and blinked sleepily at him. “Did I fall asleep?”

Chuckling, Cullen wrapped his arm around her and kissed her forehead. “Yes, some time ago. We're approaching Val Royeaux now.” Becky leaned over him and gazed out the window, and Cullen took the opportunity to study her face. Any hint of exhaustion was now gone, but he knew better. The closer the day of their wedding got, the less she slept. Every night Cullen prayed to the Maker for strength, for the both of them. He prayed that their wedding would go smoothly, and they could resume their normal lives as soon as it was over.

A swell of anger rose in his chest. He was supposed to be looking forward to their big day, but it was little more than a burden at this point. Their special moment would be twisted by political scheming and ruthless machinations of the Game. He thought he could grin and bear it in the name of duty, but now he wasn't sure.

Becky glanced sideways and arched an eyebrow at him, making Cullen sigh. She could read him like a book. “I love you,” she said simply as she sat back down. She smiled, but it was forced. “Only one more week until we're married.” She stated it as a matter of fact, no joy or excitement to her tone, and Cullen's heart sank. She was feeling the same trepidation as him. _This isn't how we should be starting our life together_. He thought he should say something, but what?

Instead he endured the awkward silence as a mass of people cheered and welcomed them to Val Royeaux.

***

“Your majesty.” Cullen bowed low as he approached the king of Ferelden. They had struck up a cordial friendship over the months, corresponding over military matters. Cullen was now considered an advisor to the king, though his position in the Inquisition was his main priority. He and Becky were settled into their rooms at the estate, and while she was immediately swamped with the final wedding arrangements, he had been summoned to meet the monarch at his earliest convenience. She'd tried to hide her annoyance at him, seeing it as an injustice that Cullen could pursue Inquisition business while she couldn't, but he could see right through her. Their parting had been tense. Cullen honestly wondered how much more strain their relationship could take; they were both reaching their limit. _One more week, just one more week..._

Alistair grinned and clapped the commander on the shoulder. “Good to see you again,” he greeted happily. “And how's your intended doing? She hasn't run off yet?”

Cullen laughed softly. “Even if she wanted to, there are too many courtiers around for her to escape unseen.” _She may try anyway, for all I know..._

Grinning, Alistair gestured for Cullen to follow him as they walked deeper into the private study. “Oh trust me, I know what that's like. This whole affair is giving me flashbacks to my own wedding.” His grin faded slightly as he was reminded of his absent queen.

Seeing the king's changing mood, Cullen felt awkward. He had little experience conversing with royalty. “It must have been strange for you back then, suddenly being the center of attention. How...” he hesitated, but Alistair nodded for him to continue. “How did you get used to it?” _Maker's breath, am I really asking a king about his personal life?_

Sighing, the king poured wine into two goblets. “Technically I should have a servant do this,” he said, indicating the drinks. “Protocol would also dictate that you serve me.” He handed one of the goblets to Cullen. “Which is silly, just because I own a crown doesn't mean I can't pour wine without spilling it everywhere.” He smirked. “Which only happens sometimes.” Cullen chuckled and sipped his wine. “As much as I need to follow the rules, a small act of rebellion every now and then reminds me of the man I used to be.” Alistair drank deeply. “Having a beautiful woman by your side helps too.” He grimaced and refilled his cup.

“You must miss her,” Cullen said sympathetically. The queen had been missing for almost three years now. He knew she'd written a letter to the Inquisitor, back when they were fighting Corypheus, but he wondered if she kept in contact with her husband at all. The despair on Alistair's face suggested that if they did, it wasn't often enough for him. Cullen blushed, realizing that he was overstepping his bounds. “Forgive me your majesty, I didn't mean to pry.”

“Please don't apologize,” Alistair said dismissively. “It's been a long time since I've had someone to confide in. The point I was trying to make is... every little moment that's yours, any time the two of you have to just be yourselves... cherish it.” He raised his wine glass in salute, and Cullen returned the gesture.

“Thank you for the advice, your majesty.” Cullen bowed. “I will take it to heart.”

“See that you do. They don't give me these fancy clothes just because I look good in them.”

Cullen couldn't help rolling his eyes, but he kept a straight face for what he was about to say. “I'd also like to take this chance to thank you, on behalf of Revekah and myself, for your hospitality, as well as your wedding present. You've been most generous, your majesty. If you ever require our services, you have but to ask.” It took two hours of practice with Josephine before he could say those lines without stammering.

Alistair nodded, a polite smile on his face as he reached for a letter on his desk. “Yes, well, the truth is there is another reason I wanted to see you.” He handed the paper to Cullen. “It seems we have a mutual friend.”

Cullen read, his eyes widening in surprise. “This is from Knight-Commander Greagoir?” He had barely thought of his former superior in the last ten years, and he'd heard no news of him in regards to the red templars. Memories of his time at the Ferelden circle suddenly surfaced, and he quickly pushed them to the back of his mind.

“He and a few of his men are in Val Royeaux, to discuss the future of the order. Not every templar became corrupted or joined with you during the war against Corypheus, but now there needs to be a decision on what they should become, and who they should serve. There's some internal disagreement over what path they should take, and it's threatening to spill over into the political sphere. I've already met with him, there's interest in a formal alliance with the Inquisition.” Alistair paused before continuing. “He offers his congratulations on your wedding.”

“I'd be more than happy to discuss terms for an alliance, assuming the Inquisitor approves.” Cullen put down the letter. “And that's very kind of him, please convey my thanks for me.”

“You can do that yourself,” Alistair replied. “He and his men are staying at a tavern called the Sang Bleu, just on the outskirts of Val Royeaux. He's hoping to receive you there later today, if it's convenient.”

Cullen swallowed heavily, his hand instinctively seeking the pommel of his sword, feeling much hotter than he had a moment ago. He hadn't had contact with anyone from Kinloch Hold since he left for Kirkwall years earlier. The Knight-Commander was the one who approved of his transfer to Kirkwall, knowing how much the events at the circle tower had destroyed him. Cullen hadn't even been able to look Greagoir in the eye after breaking down. “I don't think that's a good idea,” he managed to say.

Alistair's gaze softened. “I was there with Riza when we liberated the tower,” he reminded Cullen, who flinched at the memory. “You've endured much, and you're about to start a whole new chapter of your life. Maybe this can help you close that old chapter.” He clasped the commander's arm. “Get some closure. You deserve it.”

Cullen ran a hand through his hair. He still felt uneasy, but part of him was curious to see his former colleagues after all this time, and to find out how they avoided the red lyrium fiasco that had nearly destroyed the order. At the very least, they could stick to discussing business. “Maybe,” was all he'd commit to, but Alistair knew what he meant, and didn't press the matter further.

***

Cullen stepped inside the Sang Bleu, and immediately wondered if he was in the wrong place. It was much too quiet and clean for a tavern, especially in the middle of the afternoon in a town that was full to the brim with tourists and visitors needing lodging. He spent little time thinking on it however, since he was hardly familiar with such Orlesian establishments. He removed his cloak and hung it on a hook at the doorway. To avoid recognition he was out of his armor, wearing a simple linen shirt with a dark brown leather vest, matching breeches, and black riding boots. Despite their earlier disagreement, Becky had been impressed by his wardrobe, and offered to help him undress later that night. The memory helped ease his nerves somewhat.

There were few patrons within, and most of them were loners staring into their cups. The barmaid was sweeping at the far end of the room. Sitting at a large table in the middle of the near empty room was-

“Kristoff?” Cullen stared as the group of three templars looked up at him. Knight-Commander Greagoir looked exactly the same as he remembered, though his hair was now white instead of dark grey. To his left was a young man Cullen didn't recognize, obviously a new recruit. And to Greagoir's right was Knight-Captain Kristoff, who had been one of Cullen's closest confidants before the circle fell. He had been seriously injured during Uldred's uprising, and had still been recovering when Cullen was sent to Kirkwall. Cullen remembered receiving a few letters from Kristoff, which he had barely read before tossing them into the fire to avoid thinking about the horrible incident. Eventually the letters stopped arriving.

As Kristoff stood up, Cullen fidgeted, torn between guilt and elation. Elation won out as Kristoff strode towards him, limping slightly, and enveloped him in a hug. “Long time no see, old friend,” he said with a laugh.

“Too long,” Cullen agreed, his throat dry. “I, uh-”

“Let me buy you a drink,” the templar offered, “and we can catch up. Starting with how you managed to get betrothed to the bloody Inquisitor!” He laughed again, and Cullen did too.

***

Varric yawned and put down his quill. He glanced out the window, surprised to see the sun low in the sky. The day passed by too quickly, and he realized he'd been cooped up in his room since morning. Getting up to stretch, he rubbed his eyes wearily. He'd spent the entire day writing, either letters for his business partners in Kirkwall or his latest novel for Swords and Shields (every time he told Cassandra he was finished with the serial, she'd look at him with such sad eyes, he had to give in to her). Deciding he was done for the day, he left his room to head for the dining hall. Food and company were what he needed now, maybe a game of Wicked Grace too if he could con enough people into playing.

Wandering the halls, he suddenly heard a familiar voice, and he peeked around the corner to find Madame de Fer herself, looking closely at a piece of art hanging on the wall. She was talking to a serving girl, explaining the art style to her, and Varric rolled his eyes as he approached her. “You know I'm sure she has a lot of work to do. Work that's not as boring as an art lesson.”

“There's nothing wrong with a little education,” Vivienne responded, turning back to the girl. “We can continue this later, dear. Off you go.” With a polite curtsey, she picked up her basket and continued down the hallway.

“So, Iron Lady, are you enjoying your stay in Val Royeaux?” Varric asked as he crossed his arms. In the four days they'd been in the capital city, having arrived ahead of the Inquisitor's party, this was only the second time he'd seen the mage in the palace. Every night so far, she attended lavish salons and socialized with the elite of Orlais. She had returned to Montsimmard and was no longer living in Skyhold, but remained a close ally of the Inquisition. Varric knew she was playing an important role for the Inquisition's reputation, something he'd never be able to do.

Vivienne was in her element, unlike him.

“Of course I am. Lots of work to be done, but there's nothing wrong with mixing business and pleasure. And the wedding will be spectacular.” She cocked her head as she regarded him. “And how are your affairs proceeding?”

Before they could continue their conversation, they heard frantic footsteps from the end of the hall. A man wearing the royal uniform of the King's household ran up the stairs, breathless and almost panicking. He spotted the two companions quickly, and dashed over to them, panting heavily. “Master Tethras, the king demands your presence immediately, as a matter of urgency.” Confused, Varric frowned. He and Alistair had done a mission together, years ago, but this was the first opportunity he had to see king after four days of being at the palace. Why would the king call on him now? He exchanged a look with Vivienne and shrugged. “Care to join me? Sounds like Inquisition business.” Vivienne nodded, and they followed the messenger as he set a brisk pace to escort them through the palace.

***

When Varric entered the study he immediately noticed the Ferelden, as he was angrily barking orders at a soldier. As they approached, Alistair paused, clenching his jaw as he fought to control his temper. “Find them, quickly,” he snapped, watching the soldier salute and run off, before turning his gaze onto the dwarf. “Long time no see, Varric.”

“Hey there, Snowflake,” Varric replied, too worried to bother with formalities. In of the corner of his eye he saw Vivienne's shocked expression, and he smirked. “You wanted to see me?”

Alistair gestured to a woman standing at the back of the room. She was wearing a nightingale insignia on her tunic, and Varric recognized her from Skyhold, back when Leliana was still the spymaster. “One of Leliana's- I mean, Divine Victoria's- agents just arrived,” Alistair explained. “She's uncovered a plot to disrupt the wedding. Both the Inquisitor and Commander are targets for assassination.”

Cursing, Varric mentally ran through the most likely scenarios for an assassination attempt. “We need to get them out of the public eye, keep them safe here until we find out who's behind this. Where's the Inquisitor?”

“At the Grand Cathedral, and the crowds are making it hard for my men to get through.”

 _Shit_. There were hundreds of people between Becky and them, and a crowd always worked in an assassin's favour. “So send a raven!” Varric exclaimed. As long as she had warning, she had a chance.

“I have, but even if she gets it right away, it will still take time for her to get here.” Alistair sighed. “I'm more worried about Cullen. He's on the edge of the city, meeting an old colleague to discuss an alliance. We should assume the assassins know about it; perhaps they even set it up as a trap. At least Revekah has trustworthy people with her. Cullen went alone, and he's further away from us.”

“But he'll be easier to get to,” Vivienne pointed out. “If we leave now-”

“It may already be too late.” Alistair grimaced. “You can slip out now without causing a fuss. But you need fighters to back you up, we don't know how many agents we're dealing with.”

“The Chargers,” Varric answered immediately. “They're nearby, and they're already security for the wedding. They know the layout of the city.”

“Good. I'll send more of my soldiers to the Grand Cathedral, they'll work with the Orlesian guard to clear the area as much as they can. We can't just send Ferelden soldiers into the city center and order people around. I've already sent word to Duke Gaspard, he's on his way. We'll keep your Inquisitor safe.” Alistair gave the two companions a reassuring nod. “Go, now. May the Maker watch over you.”

***

The hours passed unnoticed, until the sky was dark and the moon was beginning to peek up over the horizon. Greagoir snorted into his mead as Cullen confessed to sharing Kristoff's infamous 'naked salute' story with the Inquisitor. “Maker's breath, I can't believe I forgot about that!” Laughing, Greagoir slapped Kristoff on the back, while the younger man was trying to hide his blushing face.

Cullen downed the rest of his ale, feeling happier than he had in a long time. Kristoff was retired from active duty due to his injured leg, but he remained attached to the order. He and a few others from the Ferelden circle had left when it became clear the templars were being manipulated. Now they were trying to rebuild what they lost.

While Greagoir was still teasing Kristoff, Cullen stole a glance to the other member of their party. He'd introduced himself as Gerald, but had said little else all evening. Cullen wondered if he was really happy to listen to a bunch of veterans relive the glory days, or if he was just humouring the Knight-Commander. Gerald's attention seemed to be wandering, and Cullen couldn't help but watch the man's eyes dart around.

It was then Cullen noticed that the tavern was still empty, despite the late hour. The other men who were there when he arrived were still in their seats, but it looked like they'd stopped drinking long ago. One of them eyed Cullen with disdain. The barmaid kept switching between menial tasks, not paying attention to anything she was doing while she glanced around nervously. Years of military service had honed his instincts, and they were screaming at him to get out now. Clearing his throat, he pushed his chair back. “I'm sorry but it's getting late,” he announced, “and I have a full schedule tomorrow.”

Greagoir reached across the table and shook his hand. “I understand. Perhaps we can talk again before your big day?”

Before Cullen could answer, the tavern door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud thud. Immediately, Gerald darted out of his chair, drawing his dagger and holding it to Greagoir's throat. The other men in the tavern stood at once, various weapons emerging from the concealment of their cloaks. About ten more men had entered, and they fanned out, surrounding the trio of templars. Cullen's hand went to his side before he remembered that he hadn't brought his sword.

Kristoff had stayed seated, but he did not seem surprised at the sudden intrusion. He set down his drink on the table and calmly watched as the group of thugs took their positions. Cullen stared at him, hoping against hope that this man, who was once honourable and a friend, hadn't betrayed him. Meanwhile, Greagoir was fuming. “What is the bloody meaning of this?” he yelled. “Gerald, lower your weapon at once.”

Gerald simply laughed and moved his arm, ready to slit Greagoir's throat. “No! Put your weapon away, Gerald,” Kristoff spoke up suddenly. “The Knight-Commander doesn't need to be harmed, as long as he cooperates. He's not who we're here for.” Gerald sheathed his dagger, but stayed in place, disarming the older man.

Cullen felt a lump forming in his throat. It was a trap all along. _What was I thinking, getting my hopes up like that?_ It was of little comfort that Greagoir had been caught off guard as well. They exchanged a look, both of them angry and determined to fight. It was their duty to resist, and to get word to the authorities, by any means necessary. Kristoff noticed their unspoken agreement and laughed. “What do you expect to do, eh? You're outnumbered. You don't even have a sword.”

“You do.” Cullen gazed up at the agitated templar, who unconsciously took a step back, out of arm's reach.

“Don't be a fool, Kristoff,” Greagoir said calmly. “We can discuss this. I know we've had disagreements over what the templars should do next, but these actions are an insult to everything you stand for-”

“This isn't about that,” Kristoff snarled, “this is about _him._ ” He pointed at Cullen. “He forsook his duty when he let those mages live all those years ago. He forsook his vows when he didn't kill Hawke and that _bastard_ Anders on sight. He helped abominations overrun Kirkwall, and then he _left_ and did nothing while the Divine was killed and the Chantry crippled! The templars were corrupted...” he drew his sword and pointed the tip at Cullen's neck, slightly grazing his Adam's apple. “We heard so many stories about you and your fucking Inquisition. Helping the people, saving the mages, bringing order back to the world while shagging the woman in charge.” Cullen's jaw clenched at that last comment. Kristoff leaned forward. “There are even rumours you're no longer taking lyrium,” he whispered. When Cullen stayed silent, Kristoff raised his other hand and smacked him hard across the face. A bead of blood rose up on his lip, but he ignored it.

“Why do you get a happy ending? How many people died so you could get where you are? Your life should be mine. And I will take your happiness from you.” Kristoff's hand was shaking, and he looked away. “I... I couldn't look anyone in the eye after that day,” he admitted, more to himself than to anyone else.

Guilt washed over Cullen. He'd been so consumed by his anguish all those years ago, he never gave a thought to the others who suffered and survived as he did. Kristoff had tried to reach out to him with those letters, and he never took the time to respond to even one of them. “I understand, Kristoff,” he said sadly. “I know what you went through. There's another way. You don't have to turn to violence. Let me help you-”

 “No!” Kristoff's sword had slowly been lowering as he faltered, but now he brought it up again. “It's too late for me. All I have now is my vengeance.”

“Then you're no better than Anders,” Cullen snapped. It was a foolish comment, but he needed Kristoff to make his move. Provoking an emotional response gave Cullen the advantage; it was a basic principle of combat to remain focused and level-headed. Attacking blindly made one more vulnerable. So long as he was unarmed, it was the only card he could play.

Surprisingly, it was Gerald who reacted first. With a strangled yell he lifted the sword he took from his captive, but Greagoir pushed his chair back as he suddenly leapt to his feet. The chair knocked Gerald off balance for just a moment, but it was an opening the knight-commander needed. He lunged towards Kristoff, who had barely brought his arm up before Greagoir grabbed his shirt and headbutted him. As Kristoff fell Greagoir took his longsword and quickly moved into a defensive position. “Get behind me, Cullen!” he exclaimed, and Cullen pressed his back against Greagoir's, so the two men had a complete view of their adversaries.

Kristoff struggled as he got back on his feet. “You'll pay for that,” he gasped as blood gushed from his nose. “Kill them both!” Trying to staunch the bleeding, he backed away as his band of mercenaries surged forward, forming a tight ring around their targets.

“We have to get out of here,” Cullen whispered anxiously. Strategies were running through his mind, but he could only focus on one goal: escaping.

“Agreed. We make a hole in their ranks, get their weapons and go.” Greagoir's eyes narrowed as he inspected them. “I know how Gerald fights, and the door is right behind him. That's our best shot.”

“Ready when you are.” Cullen raised his arms and drew them to his chest, hands forming into tight fists as he got ready to fight. Without his armor he felt uncomfortably vulnerable, and until he could get a weapon he was limited to close combat.

Everyone moved at once. Cullen mostly dodged, his fists doing little damage against his armored opponents, but he knocked out two men. He hissed in pain as he didn't avoid an axe fast enough, but it was little more than a scratch. He grasped at the hilt, trying to wrestle it from his opponent, but he lost his balance and fell. Three men rushed at him, each with weapons poised to strike.

With a roar, Greagoir appeared at his side, cutting down two men at once. Cullen kicked the other attacker back, scrambling to his feet as his ally fought to cleave his way through. Finally, after another minute of harsh combat, Greagoir was free. The circle of men opened up as some split apart to deal with him. In the tense moment of quiet that followed, Cullen could hear a growing din from outside, mostly surprised shouting and barbaric yelling. _The whole city is under attack_ he concluded. His former knight-commander paused, listening as the chaos got louder.

“Go!” Cullen shouted. They had to get word to the Inquisition; if he was being targeted, he had to assume the others were as well. Greagoir hesitated before sprinting and leaping through the nearest window, shattering the glass. Three men left to pursue him, while the rest closed the gap, trapping Cullen again.

Cullen breathed hard as Gerald and Kristoff now faced him. At least no one else was attacking, but Cullen knew that even if he beat the two templars, the others would finish him. And he was still weaponless. “We're going to destroy you.” Gerald had a feral grin on his face as he raised his sword, the edge glinting in the light, sharp and dangerous. “And then we're going to destroy everything you love.” He took a step forward. “Starting with the Inquisition.” Another step. “They will all die.”

 _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._ He hadn't recited the Canticle of Benedictions since he'd heard those words from Meredith. She had been corrupt, and yet she'd dared to believe she was doing the Maker's work. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.” He finished the prayer aloud. Revekah was a peacekeeper. She always strove for peace; to achieve the best solution for everyone without compromising what was needed. Cullen had faith in the Inquisition, and in her, and he would do everything in his power to protect her vision. His duty was to give up his life, if necessary, to keep his people safe. He couldn't let these madmen leave.

Kristoff cracked his knuckles as he approached. “I'm going to enjoy this,” he said tauntingly. He reached his hand out to Gerald, who passed him his sword eagerly. He attacked with speed and precision, but predictability. Cullen was more than familiar with templar fighting techniques, having spent much of his time as commander overseeing recruit training. Kristoff, getting more and more frustrated, started to attack wildly, desperation and anger driving him. As he stabbed at Cullen's left side, Cullen slid to the right and suddenly dove forward, tackling Kristoff. The mercenaries broke apart as the two men smashed into a table. Cullen wasted no time getting back up. He now had an opportunity to get out, and he couldn't waste it.

He bolted for the door, but was quickly jerked back as Gerald seized him by the collar. Cullen turned to face him, smirking at the surprised look that crossed Gerald's face. Balling his right fist, Cullen punched Gerald hard in the face, and he couldn't help but feel a brief moment of satisfaction. He reached for the stunned man's dagger, unsheathing it from his belt. It was a lethal looking thing, the templar insignia engraved on the hilt. As he drew his arm back to strike, one of the mercenaries hit him in the stomach, making him double over as he was left winded. Another grasped both his wrists and held them together, keeping him in place. He struggled, but the burly fighter wouldn't budge. Behind him, someone- Kristoff, Cullen realized- wrenched the knife from Cullen's grip.

“Maker take you,” the former templar hissed into Cullen's ear, and suddenly there was only white-hot pain consuming him as he cried out in shock. The blade pierced his back, on his right side, and the sensation of it entering his body was far worse than anything he'd endured before. His vision instantly narrowed and he felt blood coursing down his back. As his knees gave way he clutched fiercely at the arms of his assailants. Kristoff moved around into his line of sight, a look of evil delight across his face, and Cullen tried to lunge towards him. “C...coward,” he gasped. His whole body felt weak. The arms supporting him fell away, and Cullen could only let himself hit the floor, the impact causing as much agony as the dagger had.

The fighting was over; at least Greagoir had escaped. _Please let him warn the others in time._ The mercenaries were looting the tavern now, ignoring the dying man on the floor. Kristoff and Gerald fled, and Cullen prayed someone would stop them from causing more harm. He could only watch them leave, unable to even drag his body across the floor. Every time Cullen tried to move, the pain in his back intensified. He could feel the dagger lodged in his side, and every time he breathed he thought he was being stabbed all over again. His hands clenched into fists as he fought against the agony. A losing battle.

Silence began to ring in his ears, and he felt his life leave him with each heartbeat. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't hope. As he felt his body relax and accept its fate, the pain dimmed, and his mind wandered. He thought of Honnleath in the spring. He remembered running through the village when he was young, playing hide and seek with his siblings. Watching the templars train, begging them to teach him. Fond memories of his family, friends, and his time with Becky swarmed him. A peace settled over him that he'd never felt before. _This is nice..._ Another image entered his mind, not a memory, of Becky standing alone inside the Grand Cathedral, in her wedding dress... attending a funeral, **his** funeral . He saw her kneeling before Andraste, weeping and yelling, cursing the Maker, turning her back on the world to give in to her grief. How could he leave her to such a fate? His final failure. _No..._ now Cullen struggled to stay awake. His whole life he faced adversity, sometimes straying from the light but never succumbing to the darkness. What kind of man would he be to give in now? “For-forgive me,” he sobbed. The last thing he felt was tears stinging his eyes, and then his body stilled.

 

***

 

Yes, it ends on a cliffhanger ;) Please feel free to comment!


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